The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

  “You may return to your wife, Ibn Yakub. Enjoy her embrace, for tomorrow you leave for al-Kuds, and who knows what Allah has in store for all of you?”

  Rachel, who has the most tranquil of temperaments, appeared nervous and tense when I reached our home.

  “The Franj will make the Sultan pay a heavy price before they will give up Jerusalem,” she said. “I fear that you might be part of that price. I have a terrible premonition that I will never see you again.”

  I comforted her fears. I told her of how Salah al-Din always made sure that I was kept away from any real danger. I mocked her superstitions. I tried to make her laugh, but failed miserably. It seemed as if nothing could dispel her worries. I wanted to love her, but she was reluctant, and so we lay mute in each other’s arms till I fell asleep.

  A retainer from the citadel woke me just before the break of dawn. Rachel had not slept at all. She sat up in bed and watched me dress. Then, as I took my leave of her, she almost suffocated me in a tight embrace and would not release me. Gently, I prised her hands away and kissed her eyes. “After the victory in Jerusalem I shall come to our house in Cairo so that we can celebrate together,” I whispered in her ear. “I will write often.” She did not reply.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  From the outskirts of Jerusalem I write an excited letter to my good wife in Cairo

  MY VERY DEAR WIFE, It is strange to think of you back in that old house with so many memories, most of them happy. I am sending this letter with the courier who is carrying royal dispatches from al-Adil to the palace, so you will get it sooner than if I used the caravans.

  It is almost a month since you left, and this is the first opportunity that I have had to sit and write to you. We are living in tents within sight of the walls of Jerusalem. It is a strange sensation to be so close to the Holy City. The Sultan has offered them terms, but some of the fools want to die holding their infernal crosses.

  You have by now probably heard from our friends in the palace why it has all taken so long. When we marched away from Damascus, the Sultan was overcome by one of his usual fits of indecision. Jerusalem could wait till he had cleared the coast. Once again he tried to take Tyre, but the resistance was strong. The emirs were now determined to take the city regardless of our casualties. They felt it had become a symbol of Franj resistance and should be erased from the map. Salah al-Din was annoyed that it had already taken up too much of his time. He decided to march away and we laid siege to Ascalon.

  The Franj held out for nearly fourteen days, but the Sultan brought their King Guy from Damascus and offered to release him if they surrendered. They gave Guy authority to deal on their behalf, and he promptly agreed terms with the Sultan. We did not lose many men. The day we took the city turned cold all of a sudden when the sun’s face was completely hidden. That very day a delegation of nobles from Jerusalem arrived in Ascalon. The Sultan offered them very good terms if they surrendered the Holy City, and they promised to recommend such an offer to the knights. When they got back, the Patriarch scolded them severely. The Church does not wish to surrender the city where Jesus was crucified without a battle.

  The Sultan did not allow his spirits to lower when he heard the news. He is in a cheerful mood again, despite the setback at Tyre. The presence of al-Adil, who has remained his favourite brother since they were boys, is part of the reason. For the rest, Salah al-Din is now convinced that he will be in Jerusalem before the new moon, which gives him seventeen days to be precise.

  On hearing that the Patriarch and knights such as Balian of Ibelin were now preparing to take up arms against him, the Sultan ordered all our soldiers in the region to march behind him and put up our tents just outside Jerusalem. He wants this to be a show of strength, but is prepared for a clash of arms if that is the only way. Yesterday we moved our tents to the eastern edge of the city. The Franj thought we were leaving altogether and waved ironic farewells from the ramparts, which amused al-Adil greatly. Instead we have our siege towers in place, just above the valley they call the Kidron. Here the walls seem less strong.

  From where I am composing these lines I can see the Sultan’s banners fluttering in the breeze on Mount Olivet. Our men worked all night to make sure the barbican was mined.

  Ten thousand of our soldiers have now made it impossible for the Franj to use two of their most important gates. Our archers are stationed directly underneath the ramparts waiting for their orders. The Kadi al-Fadil described their arrows as “toothpicks to the teeth of the battlements”. It is an accurate description, acknowledged as such even by Imad al-Din, who, incidentally, was hoping that al-Fadil would stay in Cairo so that he would be the only serious chronicler of the victory.

  As you know, my dearest Rachel, they do not even deign to consider your husband as a rival. For them I am just a pen-pusher who caught the Sultan’s eye at an opportune moment. That is Imad al-Din’s public attitude to me. In private he often tells me stories which he hopes I will attribute to him, thus ensuring that he is mentioned in the “great book of Salah al-Din”. The Kadi al-Fadil is more subtle, more careful, but his main concern lies in his own work. He barely thinks of me in serious terms, but is always helpful when I need to check a fact or two with him.

  Yesterday the Sultan was visited by Balian of Ibelin. His life had been spared at Hattin and he had pledged never to bear arms against the Sultan as long as he lived. Now he told us that the Patriarch had absolved him of his oath.

  “And your God,” inquired the Sultan, “will He forgive you just as easily?”

  Balian remained silent and averted his eyes. Then he threatened Salah al-Din. If our soldiers did not withdraw, the Franj would first kill their own women and children and then set fire to the al-Aqsa mosque before demolishing the sacred Rock. After this they would kill the several thousand Believers in the city and then march out into the plain with swords raised to die in battle against the infidels.

  The Sultan smiled. He had vowed to take this city by force, but he offered the Franj a generous deal. All the Christians would be permitted to leave provided they paid a ransom to the treasury. The Christian poor would be set free with money from the King’s treasure which was kept by the Hospitallers. Salah al-Din gave them forty days to find the ransom money.

  “When you Franj first took this city, Balian, you slaughtered the Jews and Believers as if they were cattle. We could do the same to you, but blind revenge is a dangerous elixir. So we will let your people leave in peace. This is my last offer to your leaders. Turn it down and I will burn down these ramparts and show no mercy. The choice is yours.”

  Today it is Friday, the Holy Day of Islam. It is the second of October, but the twenty-seventh of Rajab in the Muslim calendar. On this day their Prophet dreamt his famous dream and visited this city in his sleep. And on this day, as even the least religious of them has been telling himself and others since daybreak, the Franj capitulated and signed the terms of surrender. As news of this spread there was a loud cry of “Allah o Akbar” and the amazing sight of thousands and thousands of men, falling to their knees in the dust and prostrating themselves in the direction of Mecca, to give thanks to Allah.

  Then there was silence, a silence born of disbelief. We looked at each other in astonishment, wondering whether this had really happened or was it all a dream? After ninety years, Jerusalem, or al-Kuds, belongs to us again. All of us!

  In exactly one hour the Sultan will ride into the city and I, my dearest Rachel, will be at his side. My thoughts at this moment are of you and our little family, but I am also thinking of my old friend Shadhi. This was a day he longed to see, and I know that his ghost will be riding just behind Salah al-Din, whispering in his ear as only he could: “Look straight ahead. You are a ruler. Don’t lower your eyes. Remember, you are the Sultan who has taken back our al-Kuds, not the Caliph in Baghdad. Even as we march the so-called Caliph will be drowning himself in pleasure.”

  Shadhi would have said all that and I will think it, but I do not have the
authority to say all this to the Sultan. Imad al-Din is on his way to Damascus and al-Fadil is not here. What will they advise him after he has taken the city?

  I am alone with him and the responsibility is awesome. What am I to say if he seeks my advice? It is at times like these that I feel the most vulnerable and realise that, perhaps, I am nothing but a hired scribe.

  I kiss your cheeks and hope to see you soon. Kiss our daughter and grandson. I am delighted to hear that another one is on the way. Perhaps you should come to Jerusalem. I think I will be here for some time.

  Your husband,

  Ibn Yakub.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Salah al-Din takes Jerusalem; Imad al-Din eyes a beautiful Copt translator; Jamila makes her peace with Halima’s memory

  WE RODE INTO THE Holy City through the Bab al-Daud. The Sultan did not need Shadhi to tell him his head should be raised high. He rode straight to the Mosque, heavy with the stench of the Franj and their beasts. It was here the Hospitallers and Templars had stabled their steeds. Salah al-Din refused to wait till the holy precinct was cleansed. He jumped off his horse and, surrounded by his emirs, offered prayers of thanks to Allah. Then they began to clean the mosque.

  As we rode back through the streets the Sultan was moved by the pathetic sight of Christians groaning and weeping. There were women pulling at their hair, old men kissing walls, frightened children clutching their mothers and grandmothers. He pulled up his horse and sent a messenger to fetch the Franj knight Balian.

  While we were waiting the Sultan looked up and smiled. His flag was being raised on the citadel and the exultant chants and cheers of our soldiers momentarily drowned the noise of the distraught Christians. I thought again of Shadhi and so did Salah al-Din. He turned to me with a tear in his eye.

  “My father and my uncle Shirkuh would not have believed that this could happen, but Shadhi always knew my banners would be raised one day in al-Kuds. At this moment I miss him more than anyone else.”

  We were interrupted by the presence of Balian.

  “Why do they weep so much?” the Sultan asked him.

  “The women weep, sire, for their dead or captive husbands. The old weep for the fear they will never see these sacred walls again. The children are frightened.”

  “Tell your people,” Salah al-Din told him, “that we shall not treat them as your forebears treated us when they first took this city. As a child I was told of what Godfrey and Tancredi did to our people. Remind these frightened Christians of what Believers and Jews suffered ninety years ago. The heads of our children were displayed on pikes. Old men and women of all ages were tortured and burnt. These streets were washed in our blood, Balian. Some of the emirs would like to wash them again, but this time in your blood. They remind me that we all believe in an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.

  “I have quietened them and stilled their fears. I have told them that we are all the People of the Book, and this city belongs to all those who believe in the Book. Tell your women they are free to go even if they cannot afford the ransom.

  “Alas, we lack the powers of your Prophet Isa and are not able to bring the dead back to life. We will release captive knights provided they swear an oath never to take arms against us again. You avert your eyes, Balian of Ibelin, and so you should. You, too, swore such an oath. An oath before Allah cannot be forsworn by any human, be he a Patriarch or a Pope. If that is understood, we will be generous. If you hear of any of my soldiers offending the honour of a single Christian woman, come and tell me. If you are told that any of your sacred shrines are being despoiled by my men, please let me know at once. It shall not be permitted. That is my word as a Sultan.”

  Balian fell on his knees and kissed Salah al-Din’s robe.

  “You have shown us a courtesy that we do not deserve, O great King. For this single act we shall never forget you. I, for one, do swear before Almighty God that I will never bear arms against you again.”

  Salah al-Din nodded, and our party rode through the streets to the citadel. The town criers were proclaiming our terms, and telling Christians that they were free to worship in their churches and shrines. People fell silent as we rode past them, looking at Salah al-Din with curiosity, tempered by fear.

  That night I received a written message from a man who signed himself as John of Jerusalem. He was the grandson of an old Jew who had saved himself ninety years ago by shaving his beard and locks and pretending to be a Christian. In secret he had maintained his belief, and brought up his son as a Jew.

  “I am not circumcised,” wrote John of Jerusalem, “but my father was, and he was proud of his faith. It was impossible for me to be the same for fear of discovery. When I heard that the Sultan’s scribe was of that faith, I had to write to you. It would be a great honour for my family if you would eat with us one day this week.”

  That was how I found myself in a small, two-roomed house, sipping wine with John and his beautiful, fair-haired wife, Mariam. Their son, who was probably ten years of age, observed me in silence. He was frightened.

  “Our fear was plain enough. The last time, as you know better than me, Ibn Yakub, all our people had suffered horribly. The Franj killed us all. We have never forgotten that evil day, and nor have they. They thought that the Sultan and his army, poised outside the city, would exact a terrible revenge. The tears they weep are tears of guilt and fear. They rose to power on a mound of corpses, and they are fearful of joining that mound.

  “When news came that the Franj nobles had accepted your terms, there was a strange silence on the streets. Nothing moved. The silence was broken by the sound of horses and marching feet, and by the shrill voices of their soldiers, whose internal equilibrium appeared to be somewhat disturbed. They were talking loudly and laughing, but without conviction. Poor fools. They were trying to convince themselves that it was a day like any other day. Have you noticed how people who feel insecure speak in loud voices and are cruel to those they regard as inferior to them?

  “When your Sultan marched in through the Gate of David a wave of fear passed through the city. They are still in a state of shock. God has let them down and permitted Allah to triumph. They still find it difficult to believe that they are still alive and have been treated well. Some of them think it is all a plot and they will be executed soon. My own feeling, which may not be worth much, but which I would like you to convey to the Sultan, is not to trust the Franj. I have lived amongst them all my life. I know how they think, what they feel. They are sullen and embittered people. Better to keep them as hostages against the ill-fortune that will come, as surely as night follows day, from across the water. They will not show you mercy. Please pass this on to the Sultan from one of his humble admirers. I used to pray in secret for this day.”

  As news of our victory spread, there were rejoicings and prayers of thanksgiving were offered to Allah in all the dominions of the Caliph. Kadis and learned scholars began to arrive in Jerusalem in growing numbers.

  Jamila was the first of the Sultan’s wives to arrive. This time she did not travel alone or disguised as a man, but entered the city with her entourage of armed guards, eunuchs and maids-in-waiting. It was as if she was determined to show Jerusalem that she and none other was the Sultana closest to the Conqueror of the Holy City.

  Salah al-Din, for his part, was personally supervising the cleaning of the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa mosque, where the first khutba was due to be delivered in fourteen days’ time. Many Christians had elected to remain in the city, though most of these were either Copts or belonged to denominations that had never sought or won the approval of the religious orders favoured by the Franj.

  Imad al-Din was in his element. He was surrounded by six scribes and was busy dictating dispatches to all the rulers in the world of Islam. One evening I went to inform him that the Sultan needed his advice on a somewhat insolent message that had belatedly arrived from Frederick I Barbarossa, the Holy Roman Emperor, warning the Sultan not to even think of taking Jerusalem. The
letter, in Latin, had been read aloud in Arabic by the Sultan’s new interpreter, an eighteen-year-old Copt by the name of Tarik ibn Isa, whose jocular rendering had resulted in much merriment. The Copt had such a beautiful face that even those of us who did not swim near the other shore were bewitched by his presence. The great scholar, I knew, would find it difficult to contain himself. I described the scene in some detail to Imad al-Din, and he chuckled, but the question that formed itself on his sensuous lips related to the Copt.

  “Only eighteen years of age? Surprising. Is he a local boy?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea.

  As we entered the Sultan’s chamber the mood was light. Imad al-Din took the letter from Tarik ibn Isa and began to laugh.

  “Which passage amuses you the most?” asked the Sultan.

  “It is his threats, O Commander of the Victorious. Just listen to them again: ‘If you do not desist you will learn what it is to experience Teutonic anger. You will experience the wrath of the Rhinelanders, the big Bavarians, the cunning Swabians, the cautious Franconians, the Saxons, who sport with their swords, Thuringians, Westphalians, the fiery men from Burgundy, the nimble-footed mountaineers from the Alps, the Frisians with their javelins, the Bohemians who die with smiles on their faces, the Poles, tougher than beasts of the forest, and my own right hand is not so enfeebled by age that it can no longer wield a sword.’

  “What is interesting in this letter is that he could find no frightening words to attach to the Tuscans and the Pisans. Perhaps we should question him about this omission in our reply. As for the fiery Burgundians, does Your Grace remember the knight from Burgundy who we met some years ago? The only fiery aspect of his personality was his farting, which was so potent that you walked out of the tent, leaving my nose to bear the brunt of the explosion.”

  The Sultan began to laugh at the memory.